A Perfect Bind by Dorothy St. James

Author:Dorothy St. James [St. James, Dorothy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2021-09-28T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

After getting that troubling note, Tori insisted on coming with me to Aunt Sal’s house. Aunt Sal lived in a small brick one-story home that looked quite ordinary on the outside. On the inside, the place looked as if a circus had set up shop in her living room. The walls were painted bright red with white stripes. Her collection of iridescent carnival glassware lined shelves in front of the windows. Antique stuffed animals hung from strings on the ceiling. And the strangest artwork I’d ever seen hung on the walls. I found that it was best not to let any of the creepy, large-eyed people in any of the paintings make eye contact.

“I’ll just take this into the kitchen,” I said as I hurried through the room with my gaze locked on the brightly colored Persian rug.

“That girl is always in a hurry,” I heard Aunt Sal saying to Tori behind me. I was glad to see that my aunt had stopped crying.

“Um . . . what?” Tori said. “Um . . . What—what is that person doing in that painting over there? It looks like he’s—”

“He is,” Aunt Sal said proudly. “The paintings are all one-of-a-kind, you know.”

Thank goodness. I’d hate to think there were more of those images out in the world.

“I dated the artist for a while,” I could hear Aunt Sal explain from the living room. “A deeply troubled man, but oh, so passionate. That one is a portrait he painted of me.”

Don’t look. Don’t look.

“Oh!” I heard Tori gasp. She must have looked. “I should go see if Tru needs help.”

Aunt Sal’s kitchen appeared normal, save for the singed bits around the oven and the stove. Over the years, Aunt Sal had learned to cook less and less. She mainly used her kitchen for storing plates and glasses, the refrigerator for storing leftovers and drinks, and the large freezer for storing frozen meals. (Although, truth be told, she could mess up a frozen dinner just as dramatically as she could a meal she attempted to make from scratch.)

I loaded up three plates with crispy melt-in-your-mouth fried chicken and the Grind’s secret-recipe coleslaw that tasted like a party on my tongue, poured three glasses of iced tea, and set it all on a large decorative tray that Aunt Sal kept on the rarely used stovetop.

“Please tell me that there’s some hard liquor in that cabinet over there,” Tori said with a wavery voice. “I don’t think I can see any more of your aunt’s artwork while still sober.”

“I’m sure Aunt Sal would enjoy something too. Pour three glasses of brandy. That’s what she likes to drink. And she always buys top-shelf quality.”

The dining room, while sporting a quirky decor of paper-mache flowers glued to the walls, felt almost welcoming. Tori, who was huddled at my back, breathed out a deep sigh of relief at the sight of it. Aunt Sal had laid out silverware and cloth napkins.

“I heard you got yourself in the family way,” Aunt Sal said halfway through the meal.

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